


but still you stumble, feet give way, outside the world seems a violent place

by magnetichearts



Series: do you ever really crash or even make a sound? [a-z prompts for jon/sansa] [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Talking, Well - Freeform, but it's got a hopeful ending so!!!!, it's not that fluffy, not d&d that's for sure, oh and look it's super cute and short and fluffy, ok so basically sansa and jon actually tlak about shit, so still on brand for me, so unlike me and i like it, who fuckin knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetichearts/pseuds/magnetichearts
Summary: When she looks at him, she cannot see anyone other than Jon, especially with him wearing a simple breeches and tunic, divested of all ornaments, even Longclaw.She can only see Jon, not her bastard half-brother, not the King in the North, not the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, not a wildling, but only Jon, the Jon who took Winterfell back with her, the Jon who fought their battle, the Jon who has been there, at her side, ever since she found him again.or; instead of roaming winterfell when she cannot sleep, sansa goes to jon, and to jon's bed. it's not quite as illicit as it sounds, and gives them a chance to finally, truly, talkprompt: b - bed sharing(title from “various storms and saints” by florence + the machine)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: do you ever really crash or even make a sound? [a-z prompts for jon/sansa] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732159
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	but still you stumble, feet give way, outside the world seems a violent place

**Author's Note:**

> this is so fucking late and i am so so so sorry for that. this past week has been absolutely insane with exams, and i just finally wrapped them all up. i'm saying a big fuck you to school and spending most of my time writing now.
> 
> that being said, this is a very short, cute, fluffy fic, although it stil has an extremely healthy dose of angst! i had a great time writing it. it's set after season 6 episode 9, after jon and sansa take back winterfell, but before jon leaves for dragonstone. i had a fantastic time writing this and basically saying "fuck you" to d&d's policy of not having our faves talk, because that's all we need. i got really emotional and i hope y'all love it. 
> 
> thank you k byeeee!

The night she goes to Jon Snow’s bed, the winds are howling outside the walls of Winterfell. 

It is a cold night, colder than Sansa can ever remember it being, and she is a Stark of Winterfell, she does not get cold, but even this night stings at her cheeks, bites her nose, nips at her skin. 

No matter how warm she makes her chambers, no matter how many furs she piles upon herself, how many logs she tosses on the fire, she cannot find it in herself to feel warm. 

She has felt cold on the inside ever since she left Winterfell, and even now, there is an iciness that coats her soul, that leaves her frozen on both the inside and outside. 

There has been only one person who has managed to thaw her out, to bring a little warmth back into her soul, to make her feel better. She craves being with him, now, craves to feel his body closer to hers. 

But Jon had been distant, had been odd ever since he received a raven from Sam at the Citadel. He had retired to his room to read it, and since then, had barely been able to look her in the eye. What was he hiding from her? They could not appear weak, not now, with Littlefinger lurking the halls, not with other Northern houses chomping at the bit to take Winterfell from them. 

They were the Starks of Winterfell. They did not bow to anyone else. 

But she can’t stay away from Jon, now. He is the only person she craves, and so, even though she knows it is wrong, Sansa smooths down the front of her dress and tugs on a cover for her shift. She wraps a fur cloak around her and cracks open the door to her chambers just the slightest. 

Jon’s chambers are barely five feet away, just a door down, but Sansa knows Littlefinger has spies everywhere, within her handmaidens, the women he sends to entertain various men of Winterfell, even some of the bloody cooks in the kitchen. It is why Sansa does not trust anyone but Jon. 

She steps out of her chambers quickly after deciding that no one is there, and briskly walks down the hall, knocking on Jon’s door before she’s even come to a stop in front of it. 

Thankfully, he opens it barely a few moments later, clearly awake like her. “Sansa?” he hisses, clearly confused. His eyes dart around behind her as he tugs her into his chambers, shutting the door behind her as rapidly as he can. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “If Baelish sees you here—” 

“I know,” she cuts him off. She takes her cloak off and drapes it over the back of one of Jon’s chairs, trying not to sigh at the warmth emanating from the fire. Sansa had the Lord’s chambers, Jon insisting she take them to the point where she eventually conceded, but his felt so much warmer than hers. 

Perhaps that had something to do with the man in them, rather than the chambers themselves. She turns back to Jon and rubs her arms. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admits. “I thought you might be having the same problem.” 

Jon looks at her before nodding. “Is there any reason?” 

Sansa closes her eyes. How can she explain to Jon that she still feels the touch of Ramsey on her body, the feeling of him moving inside of her, taking everything she ever was away from her? The way his breath smelled, the drag of his blunt nails against her hip, the snicker he would let out in her ear. 

She knows that she and Jon have their own ghosts, but Ramsey, Ramsey is not her ghost. He is her demon, and she doesn’t know how to get rid of him. 

She opens her eyes when she feels a hand on her cheek. Jon brushes back a strand of her hair, revealing her face. “Sansa,” he says lowly, rubbing his thumb against her cheek. “What is it?” 

Sansa swallows and looks away from him. She moves away from him and sits in a chair by the fire, clasping her hands in her lap and crossing her ankles, always the perfect lady. “I thought killing him would change things,” she confesses, and it is like a weight is taken off of her shoulders, a weight she never knew was even there. 

“I thought maybe once he wasn’t walking this land, once I sent him to the Stranger, I would stop feeling what he did to me.” 

She looks over at Jon, and the look in his eyes is dark, dangerous, and yet, Sansa does not feel even the slightest bit of fear. When she looks at him, she cannot see anyone other than Jon, especially with him wearing a simple breeches and tunic, divested of all ornaments, even Longclaw. 

She can only see Jon, not her bastard half-brother, not the King in the North, not the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, not a wildling, but only Jon, the Jon who took Winterfell back with her, the Jon who fought their battle, the Jon who has been there, at her side, ever since she found him again. 

“It turns out I was mistaken,” she says, with a wry twist of her lips. “Even as I sit here, I can feel what he did to me. What he did to my body. What he left on me.” 

Sansa wants the memory of the Boltons to die, to vanish, to be erased from history as completely as possible, but that will never be possible, not until she dies, until her body is rotting, underneath the ground, because Ramsey’s cruelty, his hatred, it lives on, in her. Her body is a testament to his sins. 

“I wonder if I will ever be rid of him.” Even as she stares into the flickering flames of the fire, she cannot stop hearing Ramsey’s screams. They were the sweetest sound to befall her ears, except, of course, for Jon’s voice. 

But just because she can hear his screams does not mean she can forget what he did to her. 

Jon sits down in the opposite chair, leaning on his knee heavily. “I wish I could bring him back and kill him a million more times for what he did to you.” He flexes the hand that Sansa remembers had pummeled Ramsey’s face into a bloody pulp, and she has never seen Jon quite like that, so unhinged, so feral. 

He was more like a wolf in that one moment than she can ever remember him being. 

Sansa admits the thing that has been hanging heavy around her heart ever since she saw Jon nearly kill Ramsey. “I do not wish the same thing.” 

Jon looks at her with mild shock, a single eyebrow raised. “I feared for you, with Ramsey,” she continues, finger tapping at the chair. “You seemed as though you would be consumed by rage, seeking to destroy him. I do not wish that you feel such a way about another man. He is not worthy of even a moment of your time.” 

“He took something from you, Sansa,” Jon says, his voice dark, and low. “He took something from you that you cannot get back, and it  _ kills _ me that I cannot bring you his head a thousand times over.” 

She leans forward, and curls her hand around his, “Would you, Jon? Would you bring me the head of anyone I asked?” 

He nods, not a moment’s hesitation. “Yes.” 

She pulls her hand from his and leans back in her chair, studying him. She can barely see the boy she grew up with, this battle hardened, war weary man that sits before her. A thousand scars scatter his body, and a thousand more scatter his soul, and Sansa wishes to discover the story behind every single one of them. 

She wishes to kill all those who laid a single hand on him. 

It is vile, sick even, the longing she feels for her half-brother, and Sansa thinks that she truly has spent too much time amongst Lannisters to crave Jon so, her very soul aching for his. She must learn to murder those feelings, choke them to death, before they consume her, before she feels them every moment of every day, before they make her weak. 

Because Jon is her one and only weakness. He is the only thing she would sacrifice anything for. Sansa would offer herself up before she let anyone lay a hand on him. 

She tilts her head slightly and glances at him. “What is your problem?” 

Jon starts, blinking as he pulls himself from the flames. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You’ve been awfully quiet since you received that raven from Sam.” Her gaze turns sharper, ever so slightly, and she narrows her eyes. “What’s the problem?” 

He shakes his head, laughing, but Sansa is nothing if not an idiot, after all that she has been through, and Jon, for all his virtues, is not a particularly adept liar. He is far too easy to see through, and for a brief, fond, grieving moment, she thinks it makes him rather like Father in that regard. “What—what are you talking about?” 

“Don’t lie to me, Jon. I’ve had plenty of men do that to me my whole life. I expect honesty from you.” 

“Sansa, there is nothing wrong. Truly. The raven was just some worrying news about the Night King and White Walkers. Nothing new, at least.” 

“Forgive me if I think you’re being dishonest. Remember, Jon. I was held captive by Cersei Lannister for four years. I know what dishonesty looks like.” 

He sighs, settling back in his chair. “It is nothing for you to worry about, Sansa.” 

“Because I’m a woman?” Her voice is sharp, biting, and she struggles to temper down the emotion she feels at Jon’s thoughts. She’d thought him, unlike all the other men in her life, to understand her, to understand her capabilities and intelligence, to respect her. 

Sansa thought she had learnt not to expect anything from anyone, but it seems she has failed when it comes to Jon, yet again. He is the only person who can cut her so deeply, and the sooner she learns to guard her heart against him, the better it is for her. 

She has already failed to do that. 

His eyes widen, though, and he rushes to correct himself. “No, no, Sansa, no. It’s not anything like that. It just—it doesn’t concern you. That’s all.” 

“I am the Lady of Winterfell, Jon. I do not care if you are the King. Right here, right now, there are no secrets with us. If it concerns you, then it concerns me. Tell me.” 

He breaks his gaze with her then, staring into the flames, but Sansa is patient. She will wait for him to come to her. 

“Sam told me who my mother was.” 

That is unexpected, to say the least, but Sansa endeavors to show no outward surprise. She hums, linking her hands together. 

“My mother was Lyanna Stark.” 

This time, Sansa cannot hold back her surprise. “Father’s sister?” 

He nods, clenching his jaw as he stares into the flames. “Yes.” 

“But, then, who….” she cannot bring herself to finish the sentence, but Jon lets out a wry laugh. 

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

Sansa does not swear, not frequently, anymore, but as she sits in silence, stunned by the revelation, there are only a few words appropriate for such a reveal. 

“Shit.”

Jon laughs then, barking and loud. “That was the majority of my thought process when I read the letter, yes. It was rather risky of Sam to inform me, but thankfully contained enough code and shorthand that it would not have made sense to anyone but me. But still, when I found out…”

Sansa leans forward, curling her both her hands over one of his. “You will always be a Stark to me, Jon,” she says, low, strong, sure. Because it is true. Jon is Jon, a true Stark. “You are more a Stark than I ever was.” 

He reaches up and brushes back a strand of her hair. “That is not true, Sansa. You are more and more the truest Stark I know.” 

“Do not think that you belong anywhere but Winterfell. This does not change anything.” 

Oh, but it changes some things, it does, and Sansa takes no solace in knowing that her feelings are slightly more appropriate now. After all, it’s not as if she just started having them the second he confessed his parentage to her. She’s been vile for far longer before that.

Jon looks away from her, guilt marring his features, and she aches, she aches to reach out her hand and brush her fingers over the scar that runs across his eye. 

She has always wanted what she can never have, and despite what Jon has just revealed to her, that does not change. 

She swallows, shoving down the questions that bubble up in her throat. “Is there—is there anything I can do?” 

He shakes his head, grey eyes locking with hers. “This is my burden to bear, Sansa.” 

She stands up then, so furious with him she can hardly see straight. “You absolute, utter, fool, Jon Snow,” she laughs, slightly high, so angry she is losing the tenuous grip on her emotions she keeps. 

“Sansa,” he begins, rising as well, but she will not have it. 

She whirls around to face him. “No, Jon!” She stalks forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to mope around the walls of Winterfell like this, pretending you’re alone. I know you’ve felt alone your whole life, and I know I was to fault for that, I know what you’ve done in the wars haunts you, but you do not get to pretend that you are alone, because it makes me feel as though I am alone! And I have felt alone for far too long, Jon, far too long for you to make me feel the same way.” 

She steps back, the anger draining out of her, scooped out of her soul, and she is left feeling hollow, like she always does. She is so  _ very _ tired. 

“Please, Jon. The lone wolf dies.” 

“But the pack survives,” Jon finishes. 

His throat bobs as he looks at her with bright eyes, shining with unshed tears. “You are never alone, Sansa. Not for as long as I breathe.” 

Sansa wraps her arms around herself, seeking some warmth. “Do you sleep?” 

Jon shakes his head sadly. “No.” 

“I am so tired, Jon,” she whispers, feeling her limbs slump. “I haven’t slept since they cut off Father’s head.” 

“Me neither.” 

She swallows, finding the courage in her to ask for the one thing she has wanted ever since she launched herself into his arms at Castle Black. “May I stay here tonight?” 

Jon’s eyes widen. “Sansa, if Baelish finds out…” he doesn’t even need to finish the sentence. 

She shakes her head. “I do not care about him. Please, Jon?” she asks, running her tongue over her lips. “It is not improper. To everyone else, you are my brother.” 

He chuckles, low and dark. “I think Baelish would disagree.” But he looks at her, with eyes so warm and dark at the same time, and she knows he will not refuse her. 

Finally, he nods. 

He steps back as she removes her robe, leaves her in a simple shift, drags her hand down the furs of the bed. He makes to the chair as she climbs under the covers, and her brow furrows.    


“What are you doing?” she asks.

“It is not proper,” he says, eyes darting from the bed to the chair. 

She sits up straight, already reveling in the bed that smells like Jon. “I do not care about being proper, Jon. Please.” 

He sighs, but does as she asks. She cannot imagine it must be comfortable sleeping in breeches and a tunic, but she does not want to send this already skittish wolf running, and Jon is a warrior. He has faced far worse. 

Still, she wants to feel his skin pressed against hers, his breath brushing her skin. 

All fanciful dreams, and Sansa wants to scold herself for still believing in dreams, like that little girl she thought died in King’s Landing. 

Jon lays down at the very edge of the bed, but it is not that large, and so there is not much space between him. She can reach a hand out and place it over his heart, and she longs to do so. It is wrong, so wrong, but nothing about this feels incorrect. 

“Go to sleep, Sansa,” he whispers softly, eyes fixed on her face. 

“You as well, Jon.” 

She lies there, staring at his eyes until they drift close, until his breathing evens out. He is so close, a touch away, and she cannot resist it anymore. 

These feelings, they grow like weeds in her heart, wrap around her lungs and heart like vines, and slowly, slowly contract, crushing her body under their weight, leaving her unable to breathe when he is around. 

Perhaps if she gives into them for once, she will be able to breathe for a bit. 

She shuffles a bit closer, carefully watching his face for any signs of movement, and when there is none, she reaches a hand around and tucks herself into his side. 

Jon shifts but does not stir, and Sansa presses her face into his neck. His smells like the first snows of Winterfell, cold, and crisp, and she can feel the pulse of his throat against her cheek. 

She wants to feel it forever, to reassure herself that he is alive. 

But she has already indulged herself far too much, and so she settles herself next to him, breathes him in, and closes her eyes. 

She does not expect to find peace with him; she has long since stopped hoping to find peace within her, but beside him, the hollow ache in her chest pulses a little less, and she thinks that that is all the peace she needs. 

**Author's Note:**

> your comments and kudos make me happier than sansa seeing lady! come talk to me about the show! you can find me on tumblr: @[parkersedith](https://parkersedith.tumblr.com)


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